


Damage

by circopoi (cicadabug), nicpic



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Dubious Consent, Harry pov, Hurt No Comfort, Jean POV, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Sex, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Sexual Assault, Vignettes, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, jeangst, pre-martinaise harry is a piece of shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:36:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27098218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicadabug/pseuds/circopoi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicpic/pseuds/nicpic
Summary: the taste of thick smoke // a fountain pen // a broken bottle // puddles underneath hydrogen lightMemories of the once-legendary Vicquemare-Du Bois partnership, told in both perspectives.
Relationships: Harry Du Bois & Kim Kitsuragi, Harry Du Bois/Jean Vicquemare
Comments: 10
Kudos: 59





	1. Control

**Author's Note:**

> the first chapter is mainly by nicpic and the second by circo :3 thank u 4 reading and comments and kudos are always beloved // also it should be clarified that we do not condone harry's actions in this fic

You tug on your gloves. New, black leather. They chafe; not yet worn down to velvet. You have no doubt that it won’t be long before they do. You rub them together in the ocean cold.

The sweep of fabric against wood. Judit sits beside you on the deck of the shack, legs hanging off the creaking edge. Dull scrapes of the washerwoman cleaning clothes fills the silence; just enough to fend away its oppressiveness. Perhaps that’s why she does it.

“...He’ll come soon, Vic,” Judit murmurs.

You don’t answer. 

* * *

“He’ll come soon, Sergeant,” says the Captain. Sunlight streams brilliant through the half-shuttered window behind him, lines of yellow distorting across the top of his bald head. He glances at your tense shoulders, then leans back in his office chair, as if to prove a point. “Relax, son. He has a way of always showing up exactly on time.” He smiles. “Even if it’s not when you expect it to be.”

“Yes, sir.” You already know this. He’s just trying to placate you. Your fingers itch to pick at your beard, but you keep them tightly folded in your lap. The clock ticks. It’s 9:06. He was supposed to come at 8:30.

“While we wait, let’s talk.” Captain Ptolemy Pryce, legend of the RCM, infamous during his lieutenancy for intimidation techniques that made even the most hardened criminals spill their fucking guts, begins watering a squat, porcelain pot on his desk, a design of forget-me-nots swirling around the rim. You know jackshit about plants, but the one in the pot at least looks healthy. “As you know, this is just a formality.” A sheaf of paper with space for three signatures lies on his desk; one for you, one for Pryce, and one for him. “I’m sure when you two are officially partners, you will work much more cohesively together.” You’ve known your prospective partner for less than two months, though you’ve heard of him far before that. You’re not certain how Pryce could make such a judgement.

“We’ll see, sir.” Fuck it. An errant finger begins peeling scabs on the underside of your chin.

The sound of water trickling, then he speaks again. “...You don’t think this will be a successful partnership.” He sets the tiny, plastic watering can down. Folds his hands in his lap. “Why not?”

Both of you know that nothing you can say can change the Captain’s mind, but his eyes aren’t unkind. He would genuinely like to know why.

You roll your shoulders. The suspenders are a bit tight. “Sergeant Du Bois is, without a doubt, one of the most… bizarre people I’ve met.”

He nods. You carry on. “He’s an accomplished officer and there’s no doubt that he’ll continue to rise rapidly through the ranks.” You wave a hand at yourself. “We’ve only worked together several times, under Berdyayeva. There’s probably a far more suitable man for this position. Perhaps McCoy.”

He considers your words, leisurely formulating his response. “Sergeant, you’re an accomplished officer yourself. You were transferred to the 41st with high recommendations for diligence, loyalty, and thoughtfulness.”

You shake your head. “Du Bois solved 11 cases in the last year, alone. McCoy is the only other officer at the precinct to approach those numbers.” You incline your head at Pryce. “Except, of course, you, sir.”

“Officer Vicquemare, the number of cases solved isn’t everything. It’s simply a statistic.” He delicately holds the leaf of a plant between his fingers, inspecting it. “I chose you for different reasons.”

You wait for him to explain. He does. “McCoy, while skilled, is inherently— let’s say, a prideful man. If I were to assign him a partner, it’d be someone who understands not to interfere in his work, which is no shame at all. Partners who can cultivate the theories of their fellow officers while in the background are the backbone of the RCM. Du Bois, however, is not that man.”

“Now: why you.” He cradles the ceramic pot in his hands. Turns it in the light. “Like McCoy, Harry’s a… ‘ruggedly individualistic’ man.” He laughs at the hidden joke, unknown to you. “And because of his eccentricities, effective as they are, he does collateral damage—civilian injuries, harming the reputation of the Militia, et cetera. What’s more, as you know, of course, he’s *notoriously* difficult to work with.”

He sets the pot down. Steeples his hands. Stares directly into your eyes. “You are the only officer I have ever met that’s been able to curb his destructive streak towards others, and, moreover, convert that energy into police work.”

He goes on. “I had the pleasure of witnessing the two of you working together on THE CRYPTKEEPER.” You nod. You remember. “You didn't stop the detective from attempting his, ah, methods. Everyone tries, but it’s like trying to dam up the Esperance. You found a way to control it instead, direct it. Cracked the case open in record time.”

“You,” he points an index at your chest, “will be his moor. His grounding force.”

You know what he means. “...His damage control.”

The Captain frowns. He did not appreciate the wording. “Sergeant—”

Two heavy knocks. He’s here.

* * *

Pounding at your door. God fucking dammit. It’s three in the goddamn morning, rain pelting against your bedroom window. You wait a minute to see if he goes away. He doesn’t. The knocks only get louder. You grumble and exit the bedroom and open the front door before the shitkid fucking breaks it down.

The stench of mouth rot — when’s the last time he brushed his fucking teeth? — and fetid alcohol, of course, slaps you across the face. It doesn’t even phase you anymore; these past four years have conditioned you to human desperation.

He falls forward, pupils blown wide. You catch him. You can feel his heartbeat thundering through his shirt, unnaturally fast and strong. You take a moment to feel it. He’s probably on poppers, speed, ecstasy, cocaine— who fucking knows. Maybe all of them. At least it’s not erratic. He groans into your shoulder. You lift and check the crease in his elbows. No needle marks. That’s good. 

You guess you’re sleeping on the couch again. Heartbeat still hammering against you, you drag the larger man down the hallway, into your bedroom. Thank fucking god he’s tired the fuck out; at least he’s not struggling.

“...Dora?” he murmurs. You lay him on the bed, pressing on his chest to prevent him from getting up, tilting his head to the side in case he throws up during the night. His eyes narrow, trying to focus on you. 

“Yeah, shitkid. It’s your fucking wife, Dora, back from Mirova to kick your fucking ass.” You rub your hands on the side of your pants. “You—” Two hands shoot out and grasp the sides of your head. You trip and fall onto the bed. “Shit!”

In one swift motion, Harry is on top of you, pinning you down into the mattress. You struggle. Yell. “Get the fuck off of me!” His eyes are vacant, staring straight through you, hands in a vice-like grip around your upper arms, hard enough to bruise. “It’s fucking me, idiot! Your fucking partner!” He’s not listening. Terror begins clawing at your stomach. You push it down.

He begins to descend; you can see his pulse throbbing in his neck, centimeters away. Fuck! You jerk your head to the side. His right hand darts up and forces your chin in his direction. Before you can do anything, he kisses you.

It’s gentle. Tender. Your heart stutters to a stop. White noise fills your ears. When you fail to respond, he attempts to deepen the kiss. 

You let him.

His lips are chapped and taste of bitter wine, but you don’t care. His tongue slides across your teeth. This is for him. This is so he can find a little happiness for once, to indulge in his fantasy of Dora coming back to him, even if it’s all an illusion, and you’re not *her.* You can never be.

God, he’s so warm. You cup his face and kiss him back, eyes closed. You struggle to remind yourself that he’s not kissing you, he’s kissing her. He doesn’t know it’s you.

This is for him. God, this is for him. It has to be.

Finally, his hands release you, only to slide to your back and slip under your shirt. Your eyes bolt open, a shiver wracking your entire frame. “Wait, fuck—” He’s still catatonic. You try to wriggle backwards from his grasp but he has his fists in your shirt. Lightning briefly illuminates his face and the dark desire twisting it before it’s covered in shadow. “No—” Panic rushes through your veins and before you know it, you’ve tucked your knees in and rammed your heel into his face, his jaw clicking together from the blow.

He shouts in pain. As soon as his grip on you loosens, you tumble off the bed, wheezing, backing yourself against the far wall, trying desperately to wipe the taste of him off your lips, but you fail. Harry’s eyes land on you. They’re clear now. “...Jean? Oh fuck—”

You’re already out of the room. You slam the door behind you and press your weight against it, barring the handle with a shaking hand. The door quakes as Harry tries to open it.

“Jean?! Wait, fuck. Jean!” He’s beginning to cry; you can feel it. A heavy slam against the door. You don’t budge. “Wait, I’m sorry. I’m— I didn’t—” A bolt of lightning detonates outside.

You hope to whatever fucking deity out there that Harry doesn’t remember this the next morning. You hope *you* won’t remember this the next morning.

The weight against the door slides down to the floor. You hear him weeping, drunken sobs filtering through the flimsy plywood. 

“I’m so sorry. I’m so— I’m such a fucking failure. You don’t deserve this. I should just fucking kill myself. That would make everything so much better.” You grit your teeth. The regret in his voice sounds so visceral, so real, but you know it won’t last. It never does. “I’m so sorry. You have to forgive me.”

It’s not real, you tell yourself. It’ll dissolve right about… now. “Jean?!” He slams a fist against the barrier. If you weren’t there, he might’ve punched through it. “LET ME THROUGH,” he roars. “What, did that fucking scare you? Fucking f*g. Fucking sensitive bitch. I bet you pissed your little f*g pussy pants.”

A moment of silence. Thunder cracks. In thirty minutes, Harry will be asleep on the bed. An hour after, he’ll have a nightmare, and when he does, you’ll gently wake him and tuck him in again.

You touch your swollen lips with trembling fingers. Ignore the emotion roiling under your skin, scorching your lungs into blood-soaked ash. If you close your eyes, the drone of his snores sounds exactly like the thunder muffled through your windowpane.

If you close your eyes, you can see him kissing you, again.

* * *

It’s raining, softly. You look up. A low rumble: a storm is coming. You check your watch: it’s 23:48. The bar-front glows invitingly, but you take no comfort from the neon signs and golden atmosphere streaming from it’s windows. Laughter, hooting, and the slap of flesh on flesh echo from the building before you. You fold your umbrella and step in, depositing it in the bin by the door.

You sigh. This is fine. You’re sure this will only happen once in a while. You’re his damage control, after all.

Officers of the RCM tend to frequent cop bars, but your recently acquired partner is an exception. You have no doubt that every single bar in Jamrock Central has at least heard of him, and perhaps a fourth of them have banned him from their establishments. With good reason. You look around.

The patrons of the bar circle around two men in the center; tables and chair shift to make space for the fight. Money changes hands; a short man calls out bets, scribbling them down in a ledger.

And there he fucking is, without his fucking shirt, stumbling around in the ring like a rodeo bull. He’s already got a hefty bruise over his left eye. The other man, however, looks worse. He’s barely standing, right leg trembling beneath him. You’d be impressed if you weren’t already disgusted by the suffocating reek of stale sweat and booze from the bar. It looks like he got socked, twice, in the jaw.

There’s no trace of sanity in Harry’s expression. He’s got that smile mutilating his face, eyes wide, unfocused. You sigh. You better step in before he cripples the other man.

“STOP,” you holler. Heads turn. Not Harry’s however. He’s still got that bloodthirsty glare trained on his opponent.

You push your way into the crowd and emerge into the circle within. “RCM OFFICER HERE.” You make sure you turn around, so everyone can look at your halogen watermarks. “Stand down. You all can take this fight outside, I don’t fucking care. HARRY!” The officer has picked up a bottle and smashed it against the counter. A cheer goes up in the crowd.

Shit! The move is unconscious: you position yourself in front of Harry’s target, hand up, mouth open to tell him you’re his goddamn *partner*—

The bottle comes down in an arc, splattering red on the floorboards below.

* * *

  
  


A small drop of scarlet ink pools on your ledger. It smears. That’s the second pen that has broken on you today. God, fuck. You throw it on the ground and reach in your coat for a spare pen. 

A hand holding a battered, old travel fountain pen appears in your line of sight. You look up. Harry’s looking away from you, but the offer is still there. You gingerly, wordlessly accept it. The only sign of acknowledgement of the gesture is him drawing back his hand.

You uncap it and swallow and begin writing, an unknown emotion causing your handwriting to wobble for several lines before it evens out again. 

* * *

“And… done!” Pryce signs with a flourish on the document.

That’s it then. You’re partners with one Sergeant Harrier Du Bois. You look at him. He smiles back at you, cocky grin and easy posture betraying no deeper thought.

You reach out a hand. “Looking forward to working with you, Sergeant.” You really are, despite being designated as damage control. Du Bois's devil-may-care strangeness promises you something primal, something that appeals to the part of you that signed up for police work all those years ago, something that rotted away under mountains of paperwork and unsolvable cases. You're forever barred from glory — all Revacholians are — but... with him, you think you can come close.

“You too, Jean.” He shakes it and his hand raises for an Ace’s High. You go for it. A satisfying slap rings through the room.

You wonder at how hot his hands were, warmth lingering in your palm long after the two of you exit Pryce’s office, off to a bar to celebrate with the rest of the precinct. 

You smile. Harry notices and grins even harder. He toasts you, in the cop bar.

“May this partnership be one to fucking remember,” he roars. The 41st cheers around you. “We’ll be fucking unstoppable! Detect or die!”

You laugh, slamming your pint against his, golden liquid and white foam spilling over your fingers: a sense of hope, renewed.

* * *

Every morning you remember to personally greet Kitsuragi. It’s your window to check him over for any bruises, any gashes from broken bottles, fractured ribs, bloody—

Another swig from your flask, half the potent whiskey within already gone. What would you do, anyway, if the wounds do show up? Besides, nothing has happened to the Lieutenant for two months. You wait, and the marks just don’t appear. They'll never appear, but you can't stop checking. It’s almost ritualistic.

You couldn’t stop Harry, couldn’t change him over those five and a half years. He only got worse. And the Lieutenant— only a week later and the shitkid’s brand new, reformed. An infinitely kinder duplicate of a man you once knew. 

God, fuck. You rub your face. You drown the ugly thoughts in more booze.

The two of them left the station half an hour ago, Harry offering to buy the Lieutenant dinner. You’re sure they’re off somewhere nice, ambient light swirling around smiles and laughter, around the intimacy of a shared meal.

It’s dark where you are: an alley beside the station. A rat skitters by you, emaciated, ragged. You take another gulp, alone.

Light from passing carriages falls in inkblot patterns across the flask—it’s his face, those glass-marble eyes, that jaw that falls agape in drunkenness like a flap of cut skin—no, the eyes are too light, the beard too short; it’s not his face. It’s yours. Six years too late, you finally figure it out, what it means to be *left* in the purest sense of the word. 

You understand why he took it out on you.

You close your eyes, shake the wretched feeling of being *him* from your shoulders, and pray for a moment — just a single moment — where you can forget. But you know, tonight, you’ll dream of him, and no one will be there to wake you.


	2. Collateral

The water parts softly between your fingers. Overhead, gulls tumble and cry, the only other sound being the steady sputtering of the boat motor, manned by one Kim Kitsuragi. His back rests easy against the creaking wood of the little boat, his orange jacket gleaming in the muted beigeness of Revacholian winter. 

You wipe your cold fingertips on your pants. “We did it, Kim.”

He looks at you and nods. A small smile plays on his lips. 

A reedy sweetness lingers on your tongue. This is what hope tastes like, you decide. 

* * *

This is what despair tastes like, you decide. Last night, you passed out with pills in your mouth before you could remember to swallow them, and now they coat your gums and the crevices between your teeth, acrid and chemical. You spit what’s left of them at the ground and sit up and hold your head in your hands. It’s a bowling ball; it’s the heaviest dumbbell on the weight rack, and you’re not even halfway through the metaphor when you remember you’ll never go bowling with her again. 

And the gym… Friday afternoons she worked late, tutored some Le Jardin kids in art so you could afford light for the next month. You took the time to hit the local gym and let the pressure of the day melt off you in waves. Mindlessness, that’s what you wanted out of it. Total cessation of thought. Toward the end of your workout, she’d come and watch you, her hands pressed against fogged-up panes of glass, admiration in her eyes, savoring the way you looked when you were pure animal and not much human at all. 

You felt *cool,* then. Even when everything else about you toppled like sieged battlements and the cases piled one after the other on your ledger until they formed a colorless amalgam of your own shortcomings, she thought you were *cool shit.*

And now you’ve lost it, Harry. Completely and permanently, you’re out of cool. Every ounce of it sucked from your marrow, picked off by vultures, evaporated into the desert. You’ve lost her. 

Judging by the sunlight flickering through the layers of curtains, it’s about eight. Maybe a little past that. You have to get up so you can go to work. And you need to go to work for money. And you need money for the drinks. Yeah, there we go, see now that’s what sequential reasoning is all about. 

You stumble out of bed, one hand on your wall to guide yourself. You fell asleep in last night’s clothes again, and you smell somewhere between acceptably rank and politely putrid. No need to change them, so you fumble for the rough hem of your jacket and toss it haphazardly over your shoulders. Your arms and legs feel filled with tar. A hint of urgency in them, for reasons unknown.

As takeout from who knows how long ago thaws on the table, you cup water to your face and run it through the roots of your hair. It sweeps at your ears and falls into your face when you bend your head down, but you have no energy or desire to cut it. Who cares if you look like shit? No one does. Not anymore. You wish someone were here to tell you you look like shit, especially someone slender and blonde with a mischievous smile on her face. 

Time ticks past as you shove half-frozen curry into your mouth. That feeling of urgency again. 

There’s something important you need to do today. What was it? 

If it’s that important, then you would have remembered it, right? Your leg begins to bounce. 8:30. What does that mean to you? It’s already 8:30. 

You thrust your arms into the sleeves of your jacket and grab your briefcase and stumble out into the morning air. Your heart pounds; the voices in your head scream. You stride down the alley from the little box you call a house, stomping through puddles and streaking mud across the pavement. Perdition, then Main. The rain from last night collects in shallow pools and dips in the concrete, and they reflect a familiar pale silver in the weak sunlight. Silver, like… 

Oh, yeah. Today’s the day you become Sergeant Jean Vicquemare’s partner. 

Passersby turn their heads as you trundle forth with a renewed passion. You’re a man with a destination, and that destination is a signature on a paper, a handshake, and, most importantly, station-wide drinks with the boys. 

No. Most importantly, Jean. 

He’s different from your previous partners, who treated you more as a caged lion or a loud child than one of the most effective professionals in your field. And to some extent, you began to enjoy it, the look on their faces when they’d step away from the case for a night, frustrated, and come back to see you, with dark rings under your eyes, manhandling the culprit into the Station 41 holding cell in the morning. After the third time, they’d file for transfers.

You half-walk, half-run into the staff entrance of the station and hurry up the stairs.

Jean’s not like that. He’s quiet, bright-eyed, and watches you with an intense curiosity as you work. Maybe it’s the youth, maybe it’s the desolation that both of you never acknowledge within each other but are always aware of. You watch him back, out of the corner of your eyes during interviews as you move witnesses, culprits, and informants like chess figurines. You watch him over your shoulder as he pads behind you, struggling to keep up with the breakneck speed of your Jamrock Shuffle. You watch him especially hard as you hit the smokes after a long day, throwing ideas at each other, refining theories, cracking jokes—him with his deadpan tilted smile, you with your manic grin. 

You knock on Pryce’s tall wooden door. 

What you saw from all that watching was the same crystal admiration, in grey eyes instead of blue. You haven’t lost all your cool yet, no sir. Not as long as he’s by your side.

* * *

Your fist slams against the door your stumbling feet brought you to. You don’t know where you are; the lamps from the hallways pierce the tender flesh behind your eyes; your heart flutters like a scared pigeon in your ribcage, and your head rolls around on the floor somewhere despite being attached to your neck. “Please… “ you try to say. You’ve misplaced your vocal chords as well. All you know is this place feels like home. It could be home. The little box near the lake, down the alley from Video Revachol. Apple trees. Sunlight. Where are you, if not there?

The door opens and you fall into warmth, the way you fell into her after a long day of sticking your fingers corpses and watching the slavers of children walk free. “Harry.” Her voice was like the under-feathers of a dove. “It’s alright, Harry.” Behind her, no light. The stench—no, that’s too ugly a word to attribute to your love. The *effluvia* of humans rotting in a different way. 

The room you’re in smells like new smoke and firelight and clean skin. No decaying synthetic fruit flavors. Nothing rots here except for you, with five formulas of stimulants ricocheting through your veins and your pupils letting in all the light in the city. 

And then you’re flopped back on something soft and cradling, and someone’s there, above you, cool fingers pushing your shivering body into a bed that feels like her but doesn’t smell like her. The resolute concern in the tension of their body. Angular silhouette in the faltering drug glow. Unimaginable softness. Who are they, if not her?

“...Dora?” 

You can’t hear anything over your own thundering heartbeat and it’s too dark to read their lips. It doesn’t matter anyway. 

You miss her so much. She’ll fade away soon if you don’t do something now. You know the ritual: one last frantic kiss, then weeping, then begging, then the fog on Voyager Road takes her from you. 

So you cup her face, gently, like she would shatter in your grasp if you used any more force. She smiles. You guide her down onto the bed and sunlight bathes the both of you in white.

“Do it,” she says. “I dare you.”

Your lips touch, and everything falls to pieces. You’re in an apartment, blood boiling, sweat streaming down your forehead, your hand on a throat and your lips pressed to someone who tastes of thick smoke. This is Jean’s smoke, Jean’s bed, Jean’s heartbeat throbbing against your fingers. You know all this, and, despite everything, continue; it’s the least you can do for him.

You sink deeper into the kiss and let your tongue explore the inside of his mouth. There is nothing in your mind but static and pain, but he holds your cheek and kisses you back with a fervor and you know you’ve done at least one thing right. 

This is for him. God, this is for him. It has to be.

You relax your grip on his wrist and throat and slide your hands into the smooth crevice between his shirt and the skin of his back, toned musculature gliding under your fingers. He writhes at your touch; he’s wanted this for a long time. But he squirms away from you, desire in his eyes—or is it fear? Guilt? It’s too hard to tell. This is the closest you’ve gotten to making her stay—no, wait. That’s not it. This is the closest you’ve gotten to making it right with him. He *needs* this, and you can give this to him, if nothing else. You lean in—

And his foot launches out and collides with your jaw, ripping him from your grasp. 

You yell out less from pain than from surprise and brace yourself on the edge of the mattress, rubbing the spot of impact. Jean’s across the room, a cornered animal, whites all around his eyes, his shoulders heaving. “...Jean?” you say. Oh god, you fucked up again. “Oh, fuck, I—” 

He darts to the door and slams it shut behind him. With whatever motor coordination you have left, you rush after him and rattle the handle and push your shoulder into it, but he’s leaning against it, keeping you outside and him inside. “Jean? Wait, fuck, Jean,” you say. Wetness creeps into your voice and a knot forms in your throat. You throw yourself at it again. “Wait, I’m sorry. I’m— I didn’t—” You didn’t what, Harry? You didn’t mean to kiss him? Try to fuck him? You know exactly what you meant. 

There’s only silence on the other side. The force pushing back when you try to open the door is the only evidence that he’s still here, that he hasn’t left you. 

Your legs give out and you slide down the doorway. Hot, mucous breaths shove themselves from your body. You fucked up again, like you always do, because that’s what you *do* for a living. You’re collateral damage. Doesn’t matter who—civilians, criminals, your friends, family, the loves of your life—you’re like a frag grenade; you hurt everyone around you. “I’m so sorry. I’m so— I’m such a fucking failure. You don’t deserve this. I should just fucking kill myself. That would make everything so much better.” You hurt all of them because you’re a lowlife junkie piece of *shit.*

Blood rushes, blindingly hot, through your ears. “Jean?!” You hit the door again. The way it bruises your knuckles feels good. Refreshing. Adrenaline spikes through your body. “Let me through. What, did that fucking scare you? Fucking f*g. Fucking sensitive bitch. I bet you pissed your little f*g pussy pants.” 

That’s right. Flush your life down the toilet; it was never any good in the first place. You ruined it, Harry, when you opened your eyes for the first time. Do you see now? Nothing matters. 

You collapse and bury yourself in the ash-scent of the bed, to dream of your own cremation. 

* * *

You rise from the bar floor, brushing stale breadcrumbs and dust from your cheek. The alcohol makes the ground whirl around you, but the speed in your brain shines a beam of white hot light on the man who pushed you. The effect is otherworldly; you’re a weapon, a homing missile. 

You curl and uncurl your fists. Your chest expands past the limit of your ribs. “You wanna fucking go, huh? Little man thinks he can fight?” You yank him forward by the shirt and snarl into his face. “I’ll fucking kill you, you little shit.” 

Around you, men holler, driven by a wild energy that pings and zips between every one of them, amplifying with their yells and excitement. In the haze of the buzz, they’re flame and you’re the funeral pyre. The sailor-looking fuckass in front of you spits his tobacco and raises his fists. “Fucking try me, mate.” 

You pull your shirt off and toss it to the side. The air prickles with electricity: this is what it means to be a fucking superstar. 

Around you, bills slap into hands. The men in the bar are all strangers—you’re probably the underdog by default. But no worries, none at all; you’ll look a lot better when you beat him into structureless gore. 

He studies you. You watch him. And like a coiled cobra, his fist shoots out—the first one whips past your ear, the second one telegraphed and slower, but you’re moving too fast forward and it connects with your eye. The room lurches in shockwave pain, but you’re throwing your body harder as you uppercut his jaw, then deliver a spinning, swiping blow with your heel.

He crumbles to the ground to the music of men calling for bloodshed. As he claws himself up a chair, then a table, you grin, the flesh around your eye already swelling and tightening. He thinks he’s tough shit? You’re gonna make sure he’ll never be a father. 

A nervous commotion rustles through the men; someone says something about the RCM, but you don’t care: the spotlight’s on the two of you. The show’s over, it’s time for a finale. Moral of the story: you don’t fuck with Collateral Damage here. You don’t play with live grenades. Someone pushes a bottle in your hands and you whip it against the counter and fragments of glass clatter to the floor. The room ignites with bloodlust, and a shivering, mortal fear takes its fill in the dying sailor’s eyes. For some reason, he’s not looking at you. He looks slightly to your right, mouthing help.

But there is no help. You raise your arm and bring it down, slicing across his— those harrowed grey eyes, that gaunt face. That’s not him. 

The sound of glass against bone, then a gravelly scream.

* * *

Jean’s pen snaps. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. He’s tense today for a reason he won’t tell you. You’ve already been nosy in the morning, which netted you no results but the phrase “fuck off” in increasing agitation. He used to tell you things, but not anymore. He’s silent with you for whole days at a time, but you work well enough together you don’t need to talk. 

You have no spare pens in your pocket, so you flip out the one from the secret compartment of your ledger. An old fountain pen from a stationery store across the river, something you couldn’t afford but her parents could. You hold it out to him. He takes it and writes, saying nothing to you. 

Sometimes, it feels as if you’re the ant on the infinitely stretching rubber band. The list of fuck-ups you’ve done grows longer with every breath you take, but you can’t stop trying to make it right. You’re a tiny man in a big river, rowing helplessly against a self-inflicted current of shit the gods themselves couldn’t dam.

* * *

“Everyone tries to hamper your methods, but it’s like trying to dam up the Esperance,” Pryce says, when you ask why him and why you, later. “Forgive me if the analogy’s stretching it, but Jean’s more like… a canal. Or a floodplain. You two have a natural synergy.”

To hell with synergy. You’ve spent only two months with him, and already the voices in your head are telling you you’ll fuck it up irretrievably, that Jean-Heron Vicquemare signs his future away when he puts his name down as your partner. 

With what evidence? you ask them. But you know that they’ve never been wrong.

Still, the way Jean watches you, with thinly veiled fascination and a hint of nervous devotion… you won’t get that from any other partner they throw at you. Some buried part of you understands you won’t get it from any other *person.*

Once Pryce signs, you shrug and turn to him. He holds out his hand. “Looking forward to working with you, Sergeant,” he says. You take it and pump it once — despite his relative inexperience, it’s cool and sure. 

“You too, Jean.” Forget the drinking later, and maybe the bitches if he’s into that stuff. The real celebration is now, in this small corner office in an old silk mill riding above the ramp off the 8/81 motor way, in the tempestuous, colorful heart of Revachol, the disgraced former capital of the world. 

You hold your hand up for an Ace’s High.

Jean smiles, really smiles, resplendent with eye crinkles and dimples, and it’s one of the only times you’ve seen it. He goes for it. The smack of hope echoes through the city. 

* * *

Kim’s glove collides with your own with a muffled *whap* on the downswing of a smooth Ace’s Low. 

You whistle. “Fuck yes, Kim,” you say. “We nailed that guy. Nailed him *hard.* He’s dead as a doorknob.”

Kim strolls with you down the steps from the station into Jamrock Central. The twilight casts long, dramatic shadows across the beveled surfaces of the city. A gentle breeze tugs strands from his hair, the gel losing its strength after several hours of work. “That’s an understatement, detective. Doorknobs can’t *compare* to how dead we have him.”

“A corpse, then?”

Kim deliberates. “No. Deader.”

“A corpse, except we feed it to someone, and then kill that someone. No, we make them kill themselves. Fuck it. Sexy murder cult suicide shit.”

He turns away and holds a fist in front of his face, as if to stifle a cough. You know him well enough now to know it’s an analog of laughter, and, despite its silence, it’s just as sweet. You chatter idly about crimes, cars, things you’ve read about the world, gossip he shares with no one else, as you pace Revachol’s pavements to a quaint Samaran place on an alley often overlooked by the foodie scene—Kim’s favorite.

The cones of light from motor carriages scatter across spring puddles, flashing a soft, luminescent silver. Silver, like… what?

You stop dead in your tracks. “Kim, you ever feel like you’re forgetting something?” you ask, staring into the pools of ice grey.

He looks at you, corners of his mouth lifting almost imperceptibly. “No,” he says. “I can’t imagine why you’d feel that way.” He guides you forward, two fingers on the back of your elbow. “But, in all seriousness, bring it up if you remember it.”

“Yeah.”

“Now let’s go. Gottlieb says the less you’re hungry, the faster you recover.” He strides off, leaving you to catch up.

And that evening, after the shared dinner, you lie awake, trying to remember what it was about that color—no, that memory. *Memories,* plural, a whole catalogue of them filed under the silver shade. They were important to you, and now they’re gone, and that’s all you’ll ever know.

All that’s left is the taste of smoke on your lips.


End file.
